


writing in the margins

by smithens



Series: a love that won't sit still [8]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Conversations, Dialogue Heavy, During Canon, Flirting, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Relationship, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26551879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Richard isn't sure of Mr Barrow just yet, but he hopes he will be soon.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: a love that won't sit still [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747162
Comments: 16
Kudos: 47





	writing in the margins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Infinity2020](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinity2020/gifts).



"...I don't get out much, anymore," says Barrow. "Used to." He folds his hands, looks at his lap. Rain pounds against the skylight window above them. 

Sitting here on this unmade bed, in soft lamplight, listening to it… intimate gets at it but isn't quite right, not yet. Not when this is all so new.

Not when he can't yet be sure.

Barrow adds, "I don't often have the chance, what with… er, butlering."

"Well," Richard says, light, "I tried to give you one."

"Oh," Barrow says, brightening, but he doesn't give Richard nearly enough time to ponder (obsess) over just why: "you see, Mr Ellis, I thought you were on about _interesting_ places –"

Richard laughs. There's a clap of thunder that shakes the attics.

Barrow turns his head sharply toward the door—the door which is wide open, for appearances, for deniability, _but has any of that crossed_ Mr Barrow's _mind_ … 

The corridor's deserted but it may not be forever.

Uncomfortably aware of this, Richard (one-handed and thus inconspicuously, he hopes) does up the buttons on his suitjacket.

He'd undone them by accident. Tic and all.

Barrow's in his white tie shirtsleeves, jacket over his lap. Keeping his gaze respectful has taken a bit of doing. It doesn't help that he's sitting on his bed, that his hair isn't so pristine as it was a few hours ago, that his posture isn't for waiting at table— he keeps leaning back on his hands or over his knees, a curve in his back, legs open, _a normal bloke wouldn't look twice_ … 

They may be seated upon _different_ beds, they may be about six feet apart, but the fact still stands: these aren't the sort of circumstances Richard associates with having a fully-clothed chat.

Not anymore, at least.

The space between them is a chasm, and if he's not careful things'll get lost. "Do you really hate it so much?" Richard asks him. 

It's been four days. He shouldn't be taken aback so much by now by the man's candor, but he _is,_ and his heart's to blame for it. (His heart, and his duties, and the lack of sleep, the fact that he hasn't washed his face with hot water since Raby Castle… though that's been good for him, admittedly. He may've found the only advantage of a broken boiler. Who'd have guessed he'd ever be thankful for frozen cheeks first thing in the morning?)

But Barrow shakes his head. "No," he says, adamant, but there's an edge there that's _uncaring,_ that _can't-be-bothered…_ lots to apply to just one word. Richard can't tell if he's reading between the lines or writing in the margins. "But then I don't spend much of my time thinking about places I never go to." As soon as the words are out of his mouth Barrow gets a funny look on his face, eyes slightly narrowed. He presses his lips together for a moment before sighing—subtle, dramatic. He knows what he's doing, surely. Has to be. "In England, at least."

If he _doesn't…_

"How about out of it?"

At last he meets his eyes again. "Wouldn't call myself a day dreamer or anything," he says, and Richard feels suddenly laid bare. "But I also wouldn't mind leaving this place again." 

"Where've you been?"

Barrow tilts his head at him, a twist in his lip, something in his eyes, just the way it is when he's teased. "Only to New York."

Only… when Richard hasn't. Perhaps the man's not so provincial as he'd assumed. "Well, there's not many can say that around here," he says.

"Around _here,_ especially," he replies, with something resembling pompousness, superiority. This man has without a doubt spent far, far more of his life in the north country than Richard has but the nagging awareness of this doesn't protect him from feeling the sting of an insult, regardless of the intention behind it. "You probably get around more than I do, though."

 _Don't brag,_ Richard tells himself, _if he's to be impressed with you it'll happen on its own._

If only he could always follow his own advice.

"Work takes me places," he tells him, offhand. "Haven't left Britain on official business for a few years now." The remark earns him raised eyebrows. "...but yeah, I get around."

"Are you often in Yorkshire?"

That's got to _mean_ something, doesn't it, him asking if he's much around, if he'll be back, if—

Richard finds himself with an undone suitjacket again.

"Not so often as I'd like," he says, his ears warm. "Or – well, I follow where His Majesty goes, and there're people to visit up here—shooting, and the like—but it's rare I ever am on my own terms, I suppose."

"York, then."

"Once a year… twice, if I'm lucky… sometimes I get a chance on our way to and from Balmoral."

Barrow nods, thoughtful. "But you like it up here."

"I love it up here."

"And you get on with your parents."

Richard opens his mouth to correct him, but ultimately doesn't— it's the look on his face that keeps him from it, an expression like he's struggling with a maths problem ( _would_ he struggle with a maths problem?), like something's not right...

_But what could I have done to cause that._

He settles for, "I get on with my family, yeah."

"Sorry," says Barrow. He looks at his hands. Richard does, too, at the way he folds his fingers, at the movement of his thumb upon the back of his hand, at the kidskin glove. Meeting this man has scrambled him more than anything else in the whole summer, in the whole Season. "That you don't get to see them."

"They were all crown servants," Richard says, "they understand."

Except they don't, as much as he needs… but he doesn't have to tell him his life story. _Not yet,_ he thinks, and it's a thought that's silly and optimistic even for him.

"Were?" Barrow asks. Discomfort doesn't suit him.

"Yeah."

"But not anymore."

"No, not anymore," he says, and Barrow nods; his tongue passes between his lips; Richard watches. "I'm the last of my siblings still in service."

And foolish though it is he finds himself hoping desperately that he'll ask why, so that he can answer, _well, they wanted to get married, have families,_ and Mr Barrow might say _but you don't?_ and from there it'd just be so simple, so easy to get it settled once and for all… But he seems to have put a stopper in the conversation, instead. 

It's still raining cats and dogs. If he were more superstitious than he is (and he reckons he already is a bit more than the average bloke) he'd think it had to do with the morrow. 

Would hardly be the first time His Majesty got rained on or an event got cancelled, but he's not exactly keen on the idea that they'll be disrupted. There's the fact that Miller would make it his job to do the dirty work, for one, and for another he'd rather counted on having some time to himself in the night, regardless of whether or not – 

"I am going with you tomorrow," Barrow says suddenly. "Just to be clear."

Right.

"Are you?" asks Richard.

"Well, if you'd still like my compa–"

Richard interrupts with an "certainly I would," and Barrow says, "you don't like to let a bloke get a word in, do you?"

He's smirking.

"Sorry," Richard says, with a forgive-me smile he hopes is charming, but with the butterflies he's got in his stomach he's afraid he can't be sure. 

And for just a fraction of a second the confidence slips from his face; something flashes in his eyes. If he knew they were alike (and God, they've got to be, don't they, at this point, when has he ever gotten on with somebody so well who was normal) he'd hang his hat on that—that thing that happens in you, in your head and your stomach and elsewhere too if he's honest, when a man catches your eye and knows that he has. The trouble is he doesn't.

He doesn't know a thing. 

Besides, it's there and gone again so quick it may've been wishful thinking in the first place.

"Can't see why you want me around," Barrow says, making no other acknowledgment of the apology whatsoever, "but I'm sure it beats moping around here with nothing to do."

"As you've been doing since Tuesday, you mean."

With good reason, as far as Richard's concerned—but he gets tired of it from resident staff quick, under ordinary circumstances.

It's just that nothing about Mr Barrow makes this _ordinary circumstances._

"Should I be flattered you're paying me so much attention, Mr Ellis?"

Richard sits up straight. He keeps the smile. "Well, it's my job to pay attention to things, isn't it," he says evenly. "I'm a valet."

It's too much and he realises as soon as he's said it.

"Must be nice," Barrow says, still with that sly smile on his face, still with that pointed look, "earning your wages watching people smoke and do crosswords while the other bloke with your same job does all the work."

Earlier in the day he'd said, _blimey, they never let you sit down, do they, if you do all this then how does Mr Miller pass his time, twiddling his thumbs?_ , and just as he'd opened his mouth to reply Francis had decided to take that as an opportunity to talk about _discipline_ and _the standards of the Royal Household_ and _of course we don't lounge about when there's work to be done,_ and then, naturally, Henry had chimed in about how there's just a great many more things required in service to the King Emperor than to an earl, as if it all sounded grand and not absolutely batty—to anybody who works in a country house as sleepy as half the ones they've encountered, at least. Royal service must do something to their brains. 

The next time he has a chance to pull one over on the goddamn footmen he's taking it. He'd need all fingers and toes to count the number of times one of them's interrupted him while he's in the middle of something with a man.

Usually the something's just conversation.

Usually.

"It can be," Richard says, "depends on the view."

He's stirring up a hornet's nest, here, flirting like that, and the look that crosses Barrow's face then lasts more than an instant this time—

—until it's gone, because there's a noise from the corridor and they both shut up and stand, in unison. 

Richard sees the ring of keys fly through the air and sees Mr Barrow catch them without blinking.

It's impressive.

"Thank you, Albert," he says, sounding more resigned than he looks. 

Albert, about whom Richard _is_ sure (though that hardly means anything), looks back and forth between them with furrowed eyebrows and a nervous stance, but says nothing.

"Don't worry," Barrow tells him, with a jerk of his head in Richard's direction, "Mr Ellis doesn't bite."

"I thought you were demoted," Richard says, before he can stop himself.

"Mr Barrow always does the doors," says Albert, looking very much like _Mr Ellis bites._

A nod from the mentioned. "Well," he says, stiffly. Richard shouldn't have reminded him. "I don't expect you'll get much rest tomorrow, Mr Ellis, so you'd best turn in now…"

"Right," he says quickly, "I'll see you at breakfast, then, Mr Barrow," and as he makes way for the corridor Albert jumps about a foot getting out of his way.

"There's hot water now," he says. 

_Finally._

"Thank you, Albert," says Barrow again. Just like that he's back in his jacket—then he's standing beside Richard and shutting the door behind him. "Shall we?" he says to the hall boy, and Richard gives a nod and a smile and retreats to his room as they head for the stairs.

Then he sits on his bed with his face in his hands and hopes he's not headed in the wrong direction, hopes he's not sticking all his eggs in the wrong basket, hopes he's not making another mistake where he could have avoided one entirely by keeping to himself.

Some minutes later he goes to the washroom and finds that there isn't any hot water after all.

* * *

_18/7/27  
Downton Abbey_

_Dearest W,_

_Your letter made it to Raby the morning I left (today). M. made sure it came with me to Downton. I daresay we are both very much in his debt, because if that had fallen into the wrong hands you and I would be sacked at best and they'd do it before you could say Jack Robinson. You ought to know better by now._

_But since you don't I may as well answer your question while I've got my pen out—with a resounding 'no'. I'm here to work, dear, not to make friends, though your concern for my love life is heartwarming. And as always, likewise it's entirely superfluous. If I were looking for somebody I'd have found him by now. You make it sound as if I pluck the petals off daisies for every man I meet._

_Downton isn't quite as bad as the rumours say, but nonetheless I'm hoping this week ends sooner rather than later. Travel gets exhausting and I'm about ready to lop off W's head—and where lopping off heads is concerned I think I ought to be worried about some of the staff here but I just can't be bothered. It's been about six hours at the Abbey (I'm in bed before half eleven, can you believe it? that's the only advantage of going on ahead) and I've already had to pretend I don't see L. poking her nose where it doesn't belong. At this point I'd just like to be home, and Friday I will be._

_Naturally I wish you were here. Do get promoted eventually so you can come with me on these things. I haven't had a friend on a tour since H. and I broke it off, and he's in the secondary company this time around, worse luck. I'm sure you can imagine my frustrations on that score._

_As it happens the resident butler and I seem to be getting on like a house on fire, but don't make anything of it just yet. Like I said: six hours. I'll hold my horses, and you keep yours in the stable._

_I am, Madam,_

_Your Disobedient Servant,_

_R.E._

_XX_

**Author's Note:**

> [a love that won't sit still: Chapter 19, Sandringham, October 1927](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22677046/chapters/64152700)
> 
> my tumblr is [@combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com)
> 
> i wrote this in like a few hours and it shows but i feel like the world being as excellent as it currently is the more self indulgent reading material the merrier no matter how sloppy yk


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